The Illusionist Keep

Find my illusion and materialise it. Find the mind and make thoughts words. Take the words and make them images. Give the images to be made into illusion.


Walking through the forest of ideas, I see a platypus cat dozing on a branch, it's the colour of the branch itself. My eyes linger longer, leaving surroundings blank. Vision crawls up the thick, uneven rigs of the tree's deep skin. From a knot in the tree emerges a swarm of giant transparent ants which disappear just as quickly into a deep crater in the bark. I look up until I can't swallow. In the distant crown, a tower emerges from the tree. 

The tree is the illusion. 


There's a rope hanging from the top, I can't see from where, but I climb it. 


Remember, everything is an illusion. 


When I think of my arms getting tired, my arms get tired because I thought of it. They had not been tired, but they became tired when I turned into being the thought of tiredness. 


I climb to the top steadily, rhythmically, calculating. A secluded yard awaits me, the flat, wide surface a filled crown with a cottage emerging from the middle of the stony tree. The door is bark, the flowers are weed, and the water pond green. 
I must not waver. I must be steadfast. I must be focused. I must envision the details exactly for them to keep existing. It is up to me to solidify illusion. 


When I open the door, the interior is pristine. A big open plan kitchen, inbuilt wooden shelves with books neatly shelved everywhere. Two working rooms facing each other with a toilet room in between. Two large king size bedrooms with inbuilt mirror wardrobes, one is a guest room. The floor shows the smooth solid wood circles of the interior of the tree, the walls are grey stone covered in polished bark shelves for books. 

It is not an illusion, I recite, it is real. This is my tree house, that is the gold inked brown leather covered book on the dark, polished tree bark shelf attached to the stone wall. That is my solid skin matted with hair, heat rosy skin surfacing the pump of blood and heart, and muscle, and eyelashes above the film of my eyes. That is the air I breathe, the tree floor which upholds against the surface of my sole.


My hand itches and I turn my palm up into view. Blue ink etches into the skin, blurring pigments into its wrinkles. "You may keep your reality if your fall towards humanity amuses me." 


Oh, what a cheat the illusionist is. To fall towards humanity is to fall towards the ground. It's death, and after death nothing would need to be given. 


So how do I cheat death?


I run and jump off the tower, focusing on flying. I fall towards the earth, I fall past a giant transparent ant so fast her antlers swish in the created wind. The lazy platypus cat lifts her head from the bark to gaze at my falling. I greet her politely, then I focus again.


Everything is an illusion. To cheat death I must let go of my reality. I must let go of materiality. I must let go of words describing my illusion. I must remember illusion, and create reality to suit me anew.


Anew.


It's merely a little tree and I've jumped down a metre, landing on my feet on soft grass swaying in the breeze. I've fallen to humanity, it had amused her. I cheated death, and so the reality of my illusionist thoughts I was given the permission to keep, materialise into words, an image, for you to turn into your own illusion.


I bow towards illusion, and walk upon earth again.